exploding senses

Fuck my mind. Yes fuck it. I hate analyzing. i hate thinking. I hate guarding. I hate being cautious. I want to live wildly. Yes, wildly. I hate this business of looking right, talking correctly, being something. This image that I try to fill. This life I try to mold. It is driving me crazy. I want to break all molds, all conceptions of normal. I do not want to be regular. And how typical does this sound?

Of course Michael, you can be unique. But we’re all fucking trying to be unique. We’re all screaming at the top of our lungs for some eager ear to hear our plea. Every word, every thought, every pose we carefully choose and craft for the people. Hear me! Notice me! Over here! Me me!

Ahh. I wanna explode. I wanna stop the chase and shed this bullshit. This casing. This terrible veil that I’ve surrounded myself with. I want to make brilliance with my mind. I want to let go of everything and write and be and exist beyond conception and normalcy and standards of perfection.

I want to materialize on a daily bias. I want to revert to my instincts. To my raw animal powers.

Thinking rots. It rots! But just when I think it has done very little good except allow corrosive tedious inspections, I realize this rotting is providing new soil for new thought. All change is preceded by chaos. I want chaos. I want to change.

I want freedom. I do not want rows and desks and order and discipline. I want to live! I want to live freely and boldly. FUCK WHAT I SAY. I WANT GOOD. I don’t want to spend any excess thoughts on managing or censoring. I want to put forth energy that is pure and shameless.

****

WHAT! WHAT MIKE!? Are you gonna tell me I shouldn’t be thinking like this or that. fuck that. I need to breath. I hate busy work. School is a FUCKING JOKE. Am I a genius? FUCK NO. Why do I compare myself to everybody else. Why do I feign for their attention?! Why, in the bottom of my imagination, do I waste away with preoccupations of others. These qualifying preoccupations.

Even my writing in censored. Why can’t I be. I am terrified of being. Terrified that I am inadequate. But you know fucking what? I am fucking more than adequate. I don’t give a shit. I can do whatever I want to do.

Make it look pretty. Smile. Think of others. I spend too fucking much time thinking about what other people think of me and it saps my god damn energy. Looking the role, acting the role. Why don’t i just fucking SMILE. Why don’t I just get out and run and be. Why do I calculate the rigors and pains. Why can’t I see life and movement and action as reward for being!?!?! Being alive god damnit!? I am alone. This world is my aquarium. I don’t need to get deep.

Alright… I’m done. That felt great. I want to mean that too.

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